The Games Don't Get Old
by xxDodo
Summary: /"I swear this game was so much less annoying before you became a walking Urban Dictionary."/ Where Dean thinks Sam's being a prude and God only knows how many answers Dean's got up his sleeve. Early seasons; rated for...Dean. And...pointless banter.


_Warnings**: **No spoilers, though this takes place some time early in the series. But this is Dean Winchester playing name-place-animal-thing, he gets a little inappropriate. *sheepish* Also warning for the sucky title. Sorry._

_**A/N:***pokes this* So, uh. It was late *nods* And roadtrips are not always as fun as they sound. That's...my excuse for this. A bit of brotherly banter interlude for y'all...  
_

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**The Games Don't Get Old**

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"'Bitch' is not a name."

Dean scoffs. "'Course it is, bitch."

"Play right, jerk."

"Dude, what are you, six?"

Sam throws his hands up, because no he's not six but after ten hours straight on the road a game dredged up from their backseat-Impala days seemed like a good idea for some friendly unwinding.

But Sam is pretty sure he's even more ticked off than when they started.

"Okay, okay," Dean says. "Place is next, right? ...Between Boobs."

"Dean," Sam growls.

Dean's grinning widely now, looking mighty pleased with himself as he continues, "And animal? Huh..."

"_Dean."_

"Isn't there a blue-footed booby?" Dean snickers a little.

"You're so immature."

"And the last is a thing." Dean's smile turns conspiratory as he turns his head toward Sam and raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Wanna take this one, psychic boy?"

"Right, I think that's enough of-"

"Buttplug."

"Dean!" Sam explodes. "I swear this game was so much less annoying before you became a walking Urban Dictionary."

"So dramatic," Dean drawls. "I bet it's better than the picket fence shit you came up with."

Sam pauses before his vehement denial, going over the words he had thought of for his turn and wincing a little. _Bobby, Beijing, and so yeah maybe he'd thought of blue-footed booby too. And then books. Dammit Dean._

"At least I know how to _play_," Sam finally says, and damn if he doesn't sound like the sulky seven-year-old who lost another game of name-place-animal-thing to his gloating older brother.

"Whatever. You pick next, Samantha."

"I don't think we should do another round." And no, it's not because he's a prude as Dean claims and can't come up with anything other than geeky shit. Sam's seriously worried about his brother's state of mind, and he does not need a pit stop at a strip club.

"Sam, come on." Dean rolls his eyes, chancing a glance from the road to the younger man next to him, taking in the tense shoulders and undoubtedly sulky eyes hidden under too-long bangs. "I'm either going to fall asleep at the wheel or we're gonna have to suffer through one of those loud silences for the next two hours. _Pick a letter."_

Sam doesn't say anything for a moment, then sighs, muttering a little suspiciously, "M."

"Mary," Dean says with a straight face.

Sam eyes him, a little surprised, then says his own, "Michael."

"Motown."

"Madrid."

"Manticore."

Sam's eyes cut to Dean, narrowed, but he can't say anything about it. "Marsupial."

"Music."

"Malt."

A few more rounds of this and Dean practically has a headache. Because Jesus, how did they play this before he knew all the dirty words? This is boring as shit.

But knowing how picky Sammy was about his rules and regulations in basically fucking everything, Dean keeps his mouth shut.

Turns out anyway that after the next round Sam's getting a little dulled out too. So when Dean chooses "S," Sam flashes a slight grin and starts. "SOB."

Dean snorts a little. "That the best you can do?" he asks, smirking. "Slut."

Sam tries not to roll his eyes, still unhappy with this new definition of what a _name _is.

"Strip club."

"Strip club for gays."

Sam has to think for the next one. "Shitzu," he finally says, shrugging.

Dean shakes his head, looking almost disappointed. "C'mon man. Shitfaced Sammy."

Sam, understandably, shoots his brother an indignant glare. He huffs, bangs actually fluttering like he's no more than a fifteen-year-old who refuses to cut his hair again.

"Sex," he says next and Dean whistles.

"Go Sammy," the elder brother says, while Sam just scowls even as he tries not to smile. "But ah." Dean grins at Sam. "Sugardaddy."

"Oh dude, no," Sam protests, fighting down exasperated laughter and the ridiculously proud of himself look on Dean's face. "Okay, back to normal."

"Whoa, wait," Dean argues. "You don't get to pickwhen we got from perverted to boring."

Sam blinks. "Yeah, I do, otherwise you'd run wild."

Dean decides he can't really argue with that. "Well, your version is boring."

"No Dean, you learn from what the other person says."

"Can't you learn about the more important things in life?"

"Like sex."

"Yeah."

Sam shakes his head. "You have no filter, man," he mutters.

"Again, Sammy," Dean says, looking far more excited than he should. Sam only knows how much more Dean has in him.

"No, Dean, we can listen to music for the homestretch." He reaches for the radio, but Dean slaps the hand away.

"Alright, fine, we'll play that punch buggy game."

Sam's eyes grow almost comically wide. "Oh no, no man I am not-"

"PUNCH BUGGY." It's almost a shout and Sam grunts with the force of Dean's fist connecting to his shoulder in a _thud._

"Dean, stop-"

"PUNCH BUGGY." _Thud._

"_Ow! _There was nothing there!" _Thud._ _"__Ow!"_

Dean opens his mouth wide again, lifting his fist, but Sam grips his brother's wrist and glares as hard as he again. "Don't."

Dean grins back, turning to the road though Sam knows he's watching out of the corner of his eye almost amusedly as Sam rubs his upper arm and grumbles. Sasquatch knows that he can punch his brother back much more effectively than he could have when he was ten, but he has to think whether he wants to start something.

About half an hour later, as they near a motel by their destination, Sam's arm continues to throb slightly and he makes his decision.

"What the fuck?" Dean's arm jerks as Sam punches it hard, satisfied. The car almost swerves, Dean holding his tingling arm close and glaring at Sam.

Sam gestures vaguely at the empty road.

"...Punch buggy."

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**A/N:** …...heh, hi.

I'd written this at about two in the morning and I've been in a car so much this week that my butt is probably still imprinted on the seat. No joke. So, considering if my brother I had to go through _another _round of these games and more I might've jumped out the window...this. I blame him for my perverted state of mind throughout this as well.

(*stares* Izzy. Dude. Stop posting at the same time as me. It's creepy. _Especially _when we both post things that rereading is like wtf *narrows eyes susfishily*)

For those of you who don't know, punch buggy is a game that involves a person who spots a Volkswagen on the road punching another in the shoulder as hard as he/she can and shouting PUNCH BUGGY. Injuries and crying are expected.

Revieww :3 Whether you think I should take down this stupidity or if it was strangely endearing *blinks innocently*

-Dodo


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